


Slutpunk Blues

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Baby Cockslut Jensen, Barebacking, Diets of Come and Magic Pink Pills, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Dry Sex, Dubious Consent, Groupie Jensen, Homelessness, M/M, Tattoos, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Jensen Ackles sets off in the big bad world to seek his fortune, follow his heart in the form of Fuckpig, and try to get as many dicks in his pretty hole as he possibly can.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/search/fuckpig+verse">(Fuckpig Verse)</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Slutpunk Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts), [saltandbyrne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/gifts), [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts), [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).



> this has been incredibly cathartic for me! i get to work out some of my own post-show disappointment issues and share my love and life experiences of loving a band or a silly little piece of music _so_ much that it like. hurts.
> 
> (please please heed the warnings for this story and the verse in general. don't come crying to me if you don't!)

Richardson with its blade-perfect lawns and Sunday school solemnity feels like a galaxy away from where he is now. 

The sidewalks of Little Rock are mostly abandoned this early in the morning, and Jensen’s red dollar store sneakers scuff and drag as he makes his way from the bus station to downtown. He needs to get to Memphis before tomorrow night, but his money finally ran out last night in St. Louis.

His stomach twists and growls under his faded Limp Wrist t-shirt, starvation burning like battery acid at the back of his throat. The sun’s just starting to come over the top of the buildings when he finally makes it to Main Street, and he slows to a stop in front of a convenience store advertising greasy sausage biscuits and corn dogs.

He walks in with nothing to offer but his long-lashed gay eyes and the God-given pink of his fourteen-year-old mouth.

The man behind the counter is in his late fifties and swollen fat from years of his own disgusting food, the top of his head shining bright under the flickering fluorescent lights. Jensen eyes him when he shuffles by, looking just as up-to-no-good as he is and not knowing yet how to hide it.

He gets a handful of Slim Jims shoved into his bag, some packaged glazed donuts, barbeque chips, and two peach Nehis before Mr. Shiny corners him in the back near the beer cave, towering over him and scowling in a way that reminds Jensen of his father.

He wants to puke.

“You stealin’ from me?” His voice is gruff, raked through with disgust, probably from the tears burning in Jensen’s eyes. He clutches his backpack to his chest, all but refusing to give up the food now that he has it. He meets the man’s eyes with all the defiance in his small body, his mouth pulled into a pretty scowl.

“I don’t have any money, but I’ll let you see my asshole if you let me keep it.”

The guy takes a step back in shock, and Jensen uses the precious few seconds to regain his composure, standing up straight and arching his back like he’s in a g-string and pasties. 

“How old are you, kid?” The guy sneers but he turns to glance back at the rest of the store, making sure no one else has come in. Jensen barely holds in his smile.

He’s got him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jensen says, taking a step forward, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he looks up at him from under his lashes. “Take me to the back.”

Thirty seconds later, he’s being shoved into a stock room filled with cardboard boxes and the stench of rancid garbage. The guy settles down on a step ladder and leans back against the door, untying the apron around his waist and working at his pants.

“Get over here,” he says impatiently, sliding down his zipper and shoving a fat hand down his pants. “It’s dark. Hurry up before somebody comes in.”

Jensen sets his backpack down carefully and pulls up his baggy shirt to get at the button of his jeans, glancing up at the guy every few seconds to make sure he’s still got his attention. He shoves his Kmart girl jeans down to reveal his lack of underwear and dignity, and when he turns his back to him and bends over, the guy groans like he’s been punched.

“Spread ‘em,” he sighs. Jensen can hear the stuttered slap of a cock being stroked, and he can smell the guy’s strong body odor even as he grabs both of his asscheeks and pulls, showing off his hole that is little boy-bare and pink as a kitten nose, making sure to push out with it so the guy can see the dry, heavenly furl of it move.

“Fuck yeah.” There’s a meaty hand on his hip yanking him back, and he nearly stumbles in his attempt to stay leaned forward and spread-ass as he goes where he’s pulled. “Lemme smell it. Fuckin’ virgin pussy--”

“T-Ten dollars,” Jensen manages, his cheeks burning hot as his little dick stiffens between his legs, the sleaziness of this whole thing making him drip like a girl on the dirty concrete floor.

“Deal,” the guy growls, and in the next second Jensen’s got a sweaty, fat face against his ass, the hard press of his nose slipping inside of his gash before he takes a long, snorting breath.

“Jesus,” Jensen gasps, reaching for a stack of bread racks and holding on, hips now in both of the guy’s hands so that he’s practically lifted up off the floor.

“Let me fuck you.” The guy is stronger than he looks, and Jensen can’t do anything but follow when he’s yanked onto his lap where his fat, smelly prick is standing straight up, ready to go. Jensen struggles against him as the guy tries to force his way inside, and he grits his teeth as he tightens his cunt so much he can’t even get a finger inside.

“Fifty bucks,” he grits out, nails digging into the guy’s still-clothed thighs. “Extra.”

“You think this cunt is high quality? Hmm?” The blunt head of his dick presses against his asshole, smearing slick there. “Thirty.”

“Forty,” Jensen counters, his arms shaking from holding himself up from being impaled.

“Deal.”

He screams as he’s speared on his cock, the man’s big, soft belly pillowed against his tender back while he takes what is probably only five inches, but it feels like more without lube.

He’s lifted up without ceremony and shoved against the stockroom door, his face smashed against delivery receipts while the guy ruts into him like an excited dog. He grits his teeth and holds in every sound his body is begging him to make, not giving this fucker anything but his hole to get off with. 

It’s over in less than five minutes, and Jensen closes his eyes as that belly jiggles against the small of his back, the guy’s hips stuttering as he loads Jensen’s ass with an impressive amount of come. He’s soaked with the guy’s sweat now, stained with the smell of his BO and filled with his jizz that is probably just as rank.

“Get off me,” he mumbles when the guy starts kissing his neck with wide laps of his tongue. He yanks his jeans up his trembling thighs, ignoring the come oozing out of him and dripping down his inner thighs. “Give me my money.”

He grabs his backpack while the guy gets his apron back on, and there’s a satisfied smile on his oily face when he opens the door to the main part of the store for Jensen.

“That was worth at least a hundred,” the guy says, pressing a couple of buttons on his register to get the drawer open. He slaps two twenties and a ten in Jensen’s hand with a smirk, looking him over like a man who owns something. “If you’re gonna sell a pussy like that, at least know what you’re sellin’.”

“Fuck you,” Jensen snaps, snatching the money and stuffing it in his pocket. He grabs two waxpaper-wrapped sausage biscuits from under the heat lamp near the register and stalks out into the lazy, warm morning.

He finds an alley with a dumpster beside a restaurant that isn’t open yet, and he yanks his jeans down and swats in the gravel to let the come seep out of him while he gorges himself on fatty sausage and tough biscuits, swallowing it all down with half a bottle of Nehi. He pants softly as he relaxes back against the brick, his mouth slick with oil and his hole puffy and pushed out just a few inches above broken glass and cigarette butts. He lets out a quiet, hurt sound when he reaches down with greasy fingers to rub over his sore cunt.

He closes his eyes as he feeds three fingers up into himself, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth while he fucks himself quick and nasty, thinking about what his mama would say if she knew he just let a stranger blow a raw wad in his unlubed ass, thinking about what a dirty fucking slut he is for enjoying it, about how anybody could happen by and see him squatted here beside the dumpster, knees knocking against his chest, fingers buried knuckle-deep in his sloppy hole and he sobs when he comes, pressing his forehead against his knees and his fingers as deep as he can get them while his little dick shudders out honey on the dirty street.

He stands up on shaky legs, fastening his jeans while he stretches and grinds back against the wall like a sleepy kitten, a fuck-stupid grin taking over his face when he reaches in his pocket to touch the money stuffed there with his come-slick fingers.

Plenty of money to get to Memphis. Plenty of money to get him right up against the rail in front of Jared when Fuckpig takes the stage at 12th & Porter tomorrow night.

It was totally, totally fucking worth it.

 

He gets to the venue some time before dawn the next day, night still hanging on stubbornly around the edges of pale as he comes to a stop in front of the dark, closed venue.

After debating over whether or not to go find an open McDonald’s to wash his face and his ass, he spreads out his first boyfriend’s flannel shirt on the ground next to the locked door and settles on top of it. He shoves his bag into a vague pillow shape and curls up on his side, resting his head on it and passing the fuck out.

It’s light out when he stirs again, and he tenses up when he realizes he’s not alone anymore.

There are about five kids who’ve joined him on the sidewalk to start a day of waiting in line for tonight’s show, one group of three and another of two. None of them say anything to him when he sits up and drags his bag into his lap, his hair sticking up on one side and his cheek red from be pressed to rough canvas. 

“Did you guys go to the show in St. Louis?” One of the three leans over to talk to the group of two, and just like that he’s excluded, destined to be ignored for the next twelve hours out here.

“No, but my friend Daphne did,” one of the boys says, a flaming queer just like Jensen, all dramatic gestures and delicately-spoken words. “She said Momo got his nipple pierced _onstage_.”

“No way!” The trio gasps, androgynous hands lifting to touch non-existent chests. 

“Who did it?!”

“Adrianne, of course,” the boy laughs, rolling his eyes as he checks his compact, dabbing at his bruise purple-stained mouth. “Those two are fucking inseparable.”

Jensen just barely contains his own eyeroll, and he busies himself with digging the giant bottle of Evian out of his bag and taking a long drink.

Like these cunts know anything.

“Mmm, and she said that Jeff pulled _five_ boys from the crowd last night. I bet his dick is fuckin’ chafed _still,_ ” the boy says, clearly enjoying being the authority on the St. Louis show and fucking life in general.

All five of them moan and shiver and lick their lips at the thought, and they break off into micro-conversations about Jeff Morgan and his legendary ability to make any boy do anything he wants at any given moment. Jensen pulls out his own compact and stares critically at his reflection, scratching cruelly at a zit until it pops before he starts to yank at his hair in an attempt to tame it.

“--And _I_ heard that Jared was wearing one of those muscle tanks last night that rub against his nipples and make them so fucking hard. Apparently some kid rushed the stage during ‘Coke Dick’ and tried to Bowie his guitar before security got him and dragged him away,” the one with blue hair says while he draws a veiny, thick cock on his black Chucks with a silver Sharpie.

“That didn’t happen,” Jensen says, shutting his compact with a snap. He opens a box that used to contain Marlboro Lights and fishes out one of the many half-smoked cigarettes he’s found and collected from ashtrays and off the side of the road. This one has hot pink lipstick stains on it, and he doesn’t hesitate to press it between his lips and light it with the nearly empty Bic he keeps in the box.

Five pairs of eyes slowly turn to stare at him, all of their faces blank and barely containing contempt.

“Um. What?” Blue stops drawing and raises his eyebrows at Jensen.

“I was _at_ St. Louis. That didn’t happen. Some kid got onstage and grabbed Jared, but Jeff grabbed the kid by the back of his shirt and pushed him down to security. He never tried to tonguefuck Jared’s guitar or whatever.”

He pulls off his filthy Limp Wrist shirt and stuffs it into his bag, letting his safety-pinned nipple and his beautiful little boytits be admired for all of ten seconds before he’s pulling on his FAG crop top and pinning one side of his bangs down with a tiny pink plastic bow that snaps closed.

They’re all quiet and watching him, trying to decide how to proceed with this new information and new threat, and it goes on until the first know-it-all boy scoffs.

“Well, whatever,” he snaps. “It doesn’t matter. Jared looked fucking hot. He was totally eyefucking me in Tempe back in March, and I swear to God I was _this fucking close_ to getting backstage.”

“Ohmygod, can you imagine--”

“I would live on a diet of nothing but his come, I swear to fucking--”

“My friend Aaron told me about one time when--”

Jensen rolls his eyes and turns away from them, pressing his back to the brick and digging the headphones out of the inner pocket of his bag. He puts them in and leans back with a sigh, letting his eyes close so he can at least pretend he can’t hear them. He knows he’s on his own now, that these fucks won’t save his place if he needs to get up to piss or find some food or walk around to stretch his legs.

He prays to whatever queer gods are listening that his bladder takes pity on him until the venue opens and focuses instead on how he can possibly catch Jared’s attention tonight.

 

There’s a stampede when the doors open, and the Xs on his hands are still drying as he dashes through the venue, ignoring the futile yells of “Don’t run!” to make sure that he’s at least in the first ten kids to get into the main room.

The five bitches that he’s been dealing with all goddamn day somehow beat him in, and they’ve started in the middle of the railing and fanned out, making sure to take up the entire center of the front row.

Jensen smiles to himself as he speed walks to the barrier and the wide open spot to the right of the stage, and he feels whole the second his hands touch the chipped metal rail.

The great thing about being in love with the guitarist is that he’s 100% more likely to get a spot on the rail than if he wanted to be in front of Jeff.

He drops his bag down on the other side of the barrier, wraps a foot around one of the rungs, and gets a good, tight grip on the railing itself. It’s his treasured, perfect spot, in front of the chaos of the pit which will be behind him, and nothing but a few feet separating him from the lip of the stage.

The only way he’d leave this spot is if Jared Padalecki lifted him up from it himself.

He stares up at the stage, at the mics set up for the opening band Road Head, and lets the deep-carved, painful joy of the long wait between now and when Fuckpig takes the stage seep into him.

This is only his fifth show but the ritual is set, each part of it sacred and required. He’s at his altar now, and he’s ready to worship.

 

His adrenaline is spiked after the show, leaving him feeling alert, drunk, and recklessly exhilarated all at once. He takes his time stumbling through the ruins of the venue as it empties, his hearing completely blown, his voice gone from screaming along to every word, and his heart taking up permanent residence in his throat.

He has Jared’s guitar pick in his pocket, and there hasn’t been a single moment in his entire pathetic life that he’s felt more acutely, wholly alive.

It’s recently rained by the time he gets outside, so the air is thick and and damn near tropical as he floats down the sidewalk where he lived for half a day and around the corner to the alley where the tour bus is parked, the engine already running.

There’s a few dozen people out here already, and he takes his place among them with no ego now, all of that fucked out of him by thirteen songs and the rain of Jared’s sweat on his thirsty young body. He smiles for no reason and at absolutely no one, only hearing the blurriest edges of conversation with his ringing ears.

He lets his backpack sag on the sidewalk beside him and focuses all his attention on the stage door that’s already open, random people milling in and out of it, loading up the trailer and fetching beer and Subway sandwiches and just generally being unimportant and _not_ Jared Tristan Padalecki.

A sudden rise in energy and voices signifies that Someone has come out, and Jensen strains up onto the tips of his adorable toes to try and see.

Adrianne, Jason, and that juicy little lead singer of Road Head Katie Isabelle stagger down the stairs and toward the crowd at a pace so slow that it has to be purposeful torture. Jason stops Adrianne and gathers up all of her wild blonde hair, beaming that beatific, stoned grin of his as he twists it all up into a loose bun and tries to shove one of her drumsticks through it to hold it up.

Her laugh can be heard even over the din of eager, shivering fans, and Jensen can’t help but smile tiredly at the sound of it.

Of the whole band, Adrianne and Momo are the ones who always come over to talk and take pictures for as long as the crowd wants them.

Jason has a joint hanging from his lip like it’s a cigarette, and he’s smoking with no hands as he takes the first Sharpie to sign the booklet from _Cuntwrecker_. Adrianne is more of a dude than most any guy Jensen has ever seen, and he loves watching her hold her own as she moves from person to person, not intimidated by a single person and not afraid to put people in their place, if she needs to.

“Hey!” she says when she gets to Jensen, her smile genuine but tired. “Awesome to see you again!”

“Great show,” he tells her, his heart thumping desperately fast in his throat. This is the first time any of them has ever recognized him, and he isn’t sure how he’s still standing. “And, uh. Love the hair.”

“Ah, Jase, the fuckhead,” she laughs, reaching up to touch the drumstick wobbling around on top her head. “So hey, are you gonna be in Louisville?”

“I’m gonna try,” he says, his voice cracking and raw, hands gripping the strap of his backpack like a lifeline. “If I can scrape up the money.”

“Fuck, I feel that.” She fishes a pack of Kamel Reds from her pocket and plucks a cigarette out with her teeth, lighting it with a lighter shaped like a tiny gun. “Well, hope to see you there, man. Thanks for comin’ out.”

“You… too,” he says, only catching his blunder after he says it. She throws him a heavy kohl-lined wink and a big-dicked grin before she moves on to the girl standing beside him, her voice dropping to an absolute purr.

“Well, hello there, lovely lady--”

“You smoke?”

Jensen looks up to find Jason standing there, larger than life, all rippling muscles and surfer hair and mountain man beard, his oceanic eyes on Jensen as he holds out the joint wet from his lips.

“...Me?”

“Yeah, c’mon. This is from a friend down in Austin. Some good shit.” He holds the joint to Jensen’s lips, and he has no choice but to close them around it and suck in a long drag. He holds it for as long as he can before exhaling slowly, the smoke pluming out straight ahead of him which happens to be Jason’s hairy chest under his open flannel shirt.

“Good boy,” Jason says with a wink, about to say something else, but a cry goes up from the crowd, one that has Jensen actually gasping and scrambling forward, one hand braced on Jason’s massive chest so he can push up onto his tiptoes and see.

Jared descends the stairs out of the venue quickly, his sweaty hair pulled back in a ponytail with loose strands falling Byronically around his face. He’s got his guitar case hanging from his back, and he’s talking to the tour manager Jason Manns as he bypasses the crowd completely and heads for the bus, throwing a single, distracted wave back at the fans before he runs up the steps and disappears inside.

Seventeen hours on a bus, getting raw-dicked by a complete stranger, _still_ holding a bladder full of piss from this morning, and all he gets is a tired wave.

Jensen actually feels his heart sink as he lowers back down to his regular height, not even realizing that his hand is still on Jason fucking Momoa’s nipple.

“Aw, Jared’s your man?” Momoa asks, standing in a haze of smoke and giving Jensen a sympathetic smile when he finally comes back into himself and _takes his hand off of Momo’s tit._

“Y-Yeah.” Jensen stares at the bus longingly, his pride completely stripped. No reason to try and play it cool now. “Do you think he’ll come back out?”

“Ah, I dunno, pretty. He’s been nursin’ a hell of a hangover all day. Puked right before he came out onstage. I don’t think he’s feelin’ very romantic tonight.” Jason scratches idly at his naked, warm-skinned chest, watching the bus with a thoughtful look on his face, like he’s got nothing better to do than stand here and talk to Jensen about his cock-lust.

“Oh,” Jensen says, his face falling. He feels cut from strings suddenly, so drained that he could collapse right here and go right to sleep, people and all. “I mean… I understand. I get it. I don’t have very good luck with him. This is my fifth show, and he’s… he never comes out after.”

“I’ll see what I can do, kitten. Alright?” Jason hands Jensen the roach left from the joint and pats his sweaty cheek with one of his big, thick-fingered hands. “Just hang tight.”

“Okay,” Jensen says with renewed hope, his eyes bright as he beams up at Jason. “Thank you.”

Jason smirks at him as he pulls out yet another fat joint, tucking it between his lips as he moves on to the next person, the girl from before mysteriously gone.

Jensen steps back from the crowd and climbs up onto the low brick wall of the building next to the venue, smoking the rest of Jason’s joint and watching the crowd thin out as people get their pictures and autographs and cheek kisses.

Jeff Morgan comes out when there’s only about a dozen people left and Adrianne and Jason are on the bus, but he spends his time exclusively with a small gaggle of boys not much older than Jensen himself, all of them linked together with thin strips of leather around their wrists.

He watches in amazement as the linked boys follow Jeff onto the bus like he’s the fucking Pied Piper, and the door squeaks closed when they’re on, the headlights coming on bright and blinding.

Jensen can only watch, heartbroken, while the bus pulls away, all the windows tinted dark, keeping everything and everyone in it a secret.

Everyone else starts to scatter then, people smoking cigarettes and looking at pictures on their phone and laughing with their friends until there’s no one left but Jensen.

He has twenty dollars, and a bus to Louisville costs sixty-two. He stares out at the quiet street as tears blur his vision, his chin trembling when the feeling of expansive, deep loneliness hits him. He lets a few tears fall, too tired to stop them, but he climbs down from the wall after a minute and ventures into the abandoned alleyway where Jared so recently was, however briefly.

“It’s always better when you come around,” he sings softly to himself, so much higher than Jeff’s growl, “ain’t nothin’ like that look in your eye when you’re goin’ down. Lemme hear you, lemme hear you, lemme hear you choke.”

A gutterslut’s love song, but it makes him feel better, brings back some of the euphoria from the show. He makes a bed at the foot of the venue’s stairs, listening to the sounds of people still moving around inside, comforted by it as he hugs his backpack tightly to his chest and closes his eyes.

 

“Hey.”

A boot pushes against his delicate chest, a lick of lust from that sensation alone rousing him. There are three security guys from the show standing over him, all barrel-chested and arms bulging under their black t-shirts.

Jensen blinks as sleepy and pretty as he knows how.

“You can’t stay here,” the one who had been flirting with him during the show says, but he’s nearly smiling. “You should go home, baby.”

Jensen sits up, his eyes tight from crying earlier, head fuzzy from the pot. His shirt falls off one shoulder, and he makes a show of licking his lips and dropping his eyes down to the guy’s dick.

“How about I suck you boys off instead?”

He watches them exchange glances, the silent conversations of perverts, and he tenses a little when they take a collective step closer.

“How much?” Another one asks.

He thinks of bus money, of the ticket to the concert tomorrow night, of a Happy Meal from McDonald’s tonight before he gets on the 2am bus to Louisville.

“Twenty each,” he says.

The sound of three zippers seals the deal.

 

He makes a friend in line at the Louisville show, a 6’3” Navajo guy with a ponytail as thick as Jensen’s arm named Damian who owns a tattoo shop only a couple of streets over from the venue.

Jared doesn’t come out again afterwards, but Jensen ends up snorting cocaine off of a copy of _NOFX: The Hepatitis Bathtub and Other Stories_ and getting his babycunt wrecked by Damian right there in the tattoo chair. He shivers, come-drunk and sparking with energy, as Damian stretches out over his barely high school-aged body and tattoos the words “Beat It Creep” over his slim, pink dick.

Three handjobs and a comebath earn him enough money to get to Cleveland where he hooks up with Damian’s friends Eddie and Omar who own an ink shop on the edge of town. In the alley after the show, he gets a squeeze on the ass from Jeff and a whole joint from Jason, but Jared’s nowhere to be seen.

Back at their apartment, Omar feeds him a little white pill that has him melting back onto Eddie’s bed and getting spitroasted between two of the most delicious cocks he’s ever seen. Eddie sucks come out of him while Omar inks two kewpie dolls fisting each other on his increasingly protruding ribs, and he falls asleep before the tattoo is even finished.

Eddie gives him a hundred bucks for being such a hot piece of ass and a phone number to a friend in Chicago with the assurance that the guy has a steady tattooing hand and an uncut cock.

After another no-show from Jared, Jensen straddles Andre’s thick waist, milking that ten inch dick with his sore, insatiable insides while Andre tattoos Jensen’s schoolboy knuckles with the damning letters J-A-I-L-B-A-I-T.

A silver fox in Indianapolis gives Jensen his first hit of ecstasy, the words _Daddy’s Home_ tramp-stamped on his slutty, arched back, and fucks him with a dildo shaped like a life-sized horse cock.

Baby’s first belly bulge.

Sucking ten dicks in Green Bay earns him the word COCKSUCKER on the tender inside of his bottom lip, and he lays as docile as a fawn and takes it, his belly sloshing with come.

A coke binge has him starving for dick in Duluth, and he takes seven guys in a row, just like back in high school. He gets pretty little bows tattooed at the tops of his thighs that night, his legs shaved smooth and soft for the occasion.

His reputation proceeds him in Detroit, and before he knows it he’s snorting come through a straw and coming untouched with two dicks in his ass. He gets a pair of cherries inked in his ear that night, the only virgin holes he has left.

No Jared, no Jared, no Jared.

After the show in Pittsburgh he’d hitchhiked to, he’s broke again and flying high on a pretty pink pill with a unicorn stamped on it. He’s filthy and starving and standing around outside near the bus on ceremony alone, at this point.

And so it’s on that night when the sky is strangely shimmering and he’s aware of every cell in his body, that Jared Padalecki comes outside.

Jensen’s wearing his “With an ass like this, who needs big tits?” shirt and leaning against a stranger’s Jeep, and it takes him a full minute to realize what’s happening.

“Oh, shit,” he says to the Jeep, the pretty, pretty Jeep. “Oh, shit. _Fuck._ ”

He’s swears it’s not the drugs when he starts to notice Jared’s fox-slit, knowing eyes finding him every couple of minutes as he makes his way through the throng of people, not stopping to talk much to anyone.

Jensen pushes his way to the front and pulls fitfully at the pockets hanging out of his tiny cutoffs that show off his adorable new bow tattoos, and he isn’t really sure anymore what he wants to do when he meets Jared except for sink to his knees and offer all of his holes up for whatever Jared needs.

He’s two people away and Jensen’s heart skips, tumbling around in terrified glee in his chest. 

Right beside him. Jensen can fucking smell him, smell his clean sweat and cigarettes, smell whiskey and what he _swears to fucking god_ is the faintest hint of his legendary, god-sized cock.

“Hey,” Jared says to him, casual and easy, his hair down and skirting over his shoulders in the longest parts, sweat still clinging to the hollow of his throat and the sprawl of his collarbones. His eyes are burning on Jensen now, looking straight fucking at him, and that deadly smile of his is something Jensen couldn’t make up on any drug in the world.

“Hi,” he breathes. His pupils are blown wide, black rimmed in sea-green, and he’s so very aware of the fact that Jared is nearly a foot taller than him, that Jared’s nipples are stiff and visible through his loose muscle tank, that his asshole is throbbing with want, and that he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say to this man.

Jared’s eyebrows jerk up toward his hairline, his dimple flashing as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Got something you want me to sign?”

“Oh, um.” Jensen looks down at his empty hands, mind racing through the contents of his backpack and coming up with nothing except the notebook filled with disgusting poetry about the man in front of him. He reaches up with a sudden stroke of genius and tugs the stretched out neck of his shirt down to reveal his chest, the pretty rose-kisses of his tiny nipples.

“Will you sign my chest?” he asks, looking up at him from under the thick fall of his dark eyelashes with the dirtiest little smile he can find.

Jared grins, sharp and amused, twisting the Sharpie around in his big hand as he takes a step in closer.

“Sure,” he says, dropping down into a crouch to get eye level with Jensen’s tits, so close to the one with the safety pin stabbed through it. When he spreads his left hand at the small of Jensen’s back, right over the healing _Daddy’s Home_ tattoo to steady himself, Jensen absolutely stops breathing. He closes his eyes and inhales the thick scent of him while Jared scratches his signature onto Jensen’s chest, his nipples shiver-hard and begging for attention as Jared’s hot breath rushes across them.

“There ya go.” He stands up again as Jensen tugs his shirt back into place, and he can’t keep the pleading, hungry look off his face anymore.

“Thanks,” he says, sighed out as serious as a wedding vow. Jared’s eyes drag over him, slow and assessing, and his tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip when his gaze finds Jensen’s again.

“What’s that tattoo say?” Jared reaches out and catches Jensen’s bottom lip with the flat of his thumb, tugging it down to reveal the truest descriptor of Jensen Ross Ackles that ever was:

_Cocksucker._

Another flash of dimple, this one with a peek of tongue at the corner of his mouth. He releases Jensen’s lip, and Jensen licks his mouth the second it leaves, desperate for the taste of him, the salt and metal of his skin.

“Mm,” Jared says, almost contemplative. “You goin’ to Philly?”

Jensen feels like he’s drowning.

“I… I’m not…” He stops, sucks in a breath, tries again. “I’m kinda low on funds at the moment, so I was thinking about maybe laying low here for a few days and--”

“Come to Philly,” Jared says, taking another step away with an unreadable wolfboy smile, his marker up and ready to sign the next item pushed into his face, but his eyes never leave Jensen.

“Okay,” he breathes, helpless to do anything but watch him get further and further down the line, but that hole-clenching smile stays with him long after the bus leaves.

He’s gotta get to Philadelphia.


End file.
